


Still Waters

by Annasanvk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-07-04 04:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15833745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annasanvk/pseuds/Annasanvk
Summary: Tom Riddle Senior was as arrogant as he was affluent, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not put the Beggar's daughter Merope's claims of being pregnant out of his mind. It took him several years, but in the year of 1934, he sets out to look for his son. A son who has grown up to be bitter and lonely child. How would the timeline change if a father went actually looking for a child devoid of any form of warmth and love?





	1. Prologue

Prologue

31 December 1926  
The sun was sinking down the horizon and stained the sky behind London city stained a pale lilac colour, lining the wispy clouds with a gentle golden glow. Winter air swirled around the grey outskirts of London taking up every bit of warmth. With the swiftly approaching darkness and the chilly night air outside the lone figure pulled her shabby coat closer to her form and tucked her chin into her old woollen scarf. She was heavily pregnant, her breath visible under the sporadic light of the street lanterns. The icy sidewalk beneath her feet was slippery and her breathing was already laboured. She couldn’t go much further, and both arms wrapped protectively around her swollen stomach. 

Her feet were freezing. The cold spell had arrived a few weeks ago, but it had only gotten worse during the past week. There was a hole in her sole and the snow was dampening her socks. The Muggle police officers had chased her away, thinking she’d been a beggar, and since then she’d been wandering around the subway. 

When she arrived at the other side of Britain’s capital, an old inn’s lady and her husband had promised she could stay at an orphanage the night, darkness had fully set in. The cold moonless night threw an inauspicious shade over an otherwise wonderful. The woman felt her jaws ground together. Tonight her child would come into the world without his father and for that, she felt horrible. 

Staring forward, she looked up at the square building of the orphanage. With the waning streetlight, it cut a grand shape, surrounded by high railings and little foliage. The gravel path creaked under her feet and when she knocked the large door was answered by a blonde girl, only slightly younger than the young pregnant girl herself. Her father would have scowled at the way the Muggle girl was dressed. Even with the poor clothing her father had possessed, the girl in front of her was dressed in an even rattier wool dyed uniform than any clothes the pregnant girl had been able to keep. 

“Yes?”

The girl seemed hesitant, her fingers curling tightly around the wood of the door and her eyes were wide and frightened. Merope Riddle knew she’d seen better days. Although her clothes were only a fraction better than the ones the girl in front of her was wearing, she wasn’t clean. Her hair was matted and her cheeks were coated with dirt. Life at the lower rings of Diagon Alley had been unkind.

Life as a blood-traitor carrying a Muggle’s child had been even worse. Her father had only recently been released from Azkaban and hadn’t taken the disappearance from his daughter too well. How he managed to set up such a large quantity of the Wizarding world in such a short time was beyond her, but only little wanted to help a girl in her situation out. 

“I— I need help,” she whispered. Her voice sounded wrong and hoarse from the long period of disuse. 

The girl wrung her hands together, dull brown eyes lingering on Merope’s swollen stomach before turning around: “Missus Cole!”

She retreated further into the building and Merope caught herself on the doorjamb, fingers digging into the splintered wood. Her waters had broken and a small puddle of liquid had started to form at her feet. Another cramp wracked her body and she moaned. Her father would have been horrified. She crouched down, cradling her belly in her hands and grimaced in pain. From inside the building, she heard the girl discuss what had happened only moments before and a woman with mousy curly hair came down the stairs.

“If this is another one of your jokes, Megan, I will be very put out with you.”

“It isn’t Missus Cole!” The girl called Megan whispered, tugging nervously at one of her pigtails. “This girl— she’s pregnant. Very so.”

Merope looked up with large, weary eyes. The people she’s spoken to near the station had been shown her to the orphanage. The older Muggle man with the large moustache had been sure the matron of the orphanage could be of assistance to She was a bit younger than Merope and wore the same plain grey uniform as the girl who’d opened the door.

“Miss—” she asked carefully, kneeling down beside her, “Oh my God!”

“Megan, inform Bernard, with the recent sicknesses he should still be there. Miss, please come in. I’m taking you upstairs to the infirmary.”

Warm hands helped Merope carefully to her feet and she cried out again. Her fingers curled tightly around the school matrons arms: “It’s coming, it’s coming now!”

“All right, I’ve got you.” The school matron forcefully whispered, helping Merope up the stairs and down a dark dreary hall. “What’s your name, dear?” 

“Merope,”

“All right, Merope, dear, it’s the third door to your left.”

Soon the young girl was on a crisp white bed, crying out regularly as her body was wracked with cramps and aches. The face of the school matron was terse and even with the little knowledge she had about pregnancies, she knew she wasn’t doing well. The healer, a doctor as the woman called him, had stepped up beside her. His silver hair was combed backwards and his wilted cheeks had dusted pink. 

“The baby is already crowning,” he barked harshly, “bring me fresh linen and warm water.”

“You’re going to be just fine, sweetheart,” Missus Cole whispered, “you’ll be holding your child soon.”

Merope moaned again, her hands going to her stomach, yet the thought of her child made her smile: “I hope he’ll look his papa.”

The woman nodded slowly. It seemed she hoped so too.

The next thirty minutes flew by and in a short amount of time the shrill cries of a baby flooded into the room. The male healer held her pink baby boy in his arms and even in her state, she felt a swell of pride. The woman, Missus Cole took the child from his arms and carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. With a small smile, she showed the now silent child. His eyes were pinched closed and his lips were pursed.

“It’s a boy, dear.” 

“A boy,” she whispered softly, slowly tracing her index finger over the child’s cheek and moaned again when a flash of pain surged through her. The matron, holding the bloodied, warm babe to her chest paled when the girl turned as white as a sheet. She was only a few years older and already her life was in shambles. Her frail frame shuddered on the bed, still bleeding heavily.

“—Tom, like his papa,” she gasped out and Bernard shook his head as inconspicuous as possible. She was not going to make it. Missus Cole felt her grip on the child tighten, and watched as the girl pushed herself up on her pillows gasping out a ragged breath. “Marvolo, for my father!”

“Marvolo?” Missus Cole asked in a more sceptical tone. Unbeknownst to the young girl growing even paler, the young school matron wondered to herself if this gipsy girl had escaped from her life at a circus. She certainly looked as if her life had been very hard on her. 

“Yes,” she nodded “Tom Marvolo Riddle. I so hope— he’ll look at his father.”

Inhaling softly, she did not breath out again. It was her last breath of air before her eyes turned glassy and unseeingly and suddenly Merope Gaunt-Riddle was no more. Emily Cole rocked the small child carefully and slowly stepped out of the room, leaving the still warm body of the girl onto the bed. Not only was she young, she’d also died in less than an hour upon arriving here. 

And now she’d left her poor child behind, a true orphan birthed at the heart of Wool’s orphanage. Of course, there was a small chance the father of the child Tom Riddle would find his newborn son. Perhaps even the girl’s father, although Emily didn’t feel good about leaving a young boy to a man who might have favoured the street-life, would come for the boy.  
She brought the child to the children’s nursery. With the cold, many of the youngsters had died and little Tom was placed in a small, but adequate cot closest to the heaters. Emily Cole did not know it then, but she would be in for a few troublesome years. No would ever adopt him.

Tom grew up as a very silent child. Even as a babe he rarely ever cried. Yet, as he grew into a tall boy, Emily couldn’t help but think something was wrong with him. Despite his pale seraphic face, the young child possessed a cold sort of intelligence and didn’t get on with his peers. Even more troubling, when something happened, Tom Marvolo Riddle always seemed to be in the midst of it. 

He became cunning and calculating. Emotions often deluded the boy, and therefore shunted by the rest of the children, remaining outside the social circle of his peers. How she wished he would be adopted, but as almost none of the children were orphans per se, just bastards, there wasn’t much to hope for.

Yet, three days after his seventh birthday someone came… 

To be continued…


	2. The Orphanage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Children will learn more from what you are, than what you teach

Chapter one, The orphanage

03 January 1934  
The streets of London were grim and dark; the clouds swirled thickly at the horizon and a young child moved quickly through the streets. The rain splattered in large heavy droplets down onto his hunched shoulders and rivulets of water gushed down the child’s pale face and plastered his dark curly hair to his forehead. His face was contorted in irritation. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a very bitter seven-year-old boy.

In spite of the rain and the wind and the late hour, the young boy walked home from his visit to the library. The rain lashed harshly against his face and his cheeks felt numb from the early January cold. The pavement was rocky and Tom huddled deeper into his third-rate coat. The sun was already setting and the lights of the lanterns on either side of him spluttered to life. It was but approaching evening at five, but with short days, the sky overhead was already darkening quickly. Clouds twisted into various dark shapes and occasional a bolt of lightning flashed above.

The large Orphanage loomed up at the end of the street and Tom quickened his pace. A mosaic of leaves covered the gravel path leading up towards the large square building of the orphanage he’d been living ever since was born and dead, grey-brown ivy gnarled its way up the walls. It was a cold and dreadful place. The people living into it were not much better. The children at the orphanage were unpleasant.

Tom snorted at his mental description of them. He didn’t bother with the younger children. They were in their own imaginary world, but the ones who were the same age as Tom… They drew him out. Never allowed him to participate in anything and teased him. Especially Dennis Bishop and Billy Stubbs. The two boys were only a year older than Tom was, but they pretty much singled him out every single time they could. It was one of the reasons why he didn’t want to participate in group activities anyway. 

He shivered as the harsh wind ruffled his locks and he passed the forbidden grey cinderblock walls. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor and he quickly stepped into the hall. Two of the younger children were seated in the middle of the hall, hair pulled back in similar ponytails. Their eyes widened upon seeing him, hair plastered to his face and dark eyes unreadable. 

He scowled at them. On day he’d make them sorry for shunting him aside. 

He was special. 

He’d known so for a while now. He’d hurt one of the older children, made him loose his balance and fall, landing hard on his shoulder. He hadn’t touched him. He’d just wished for him to feel a little of the pain he felt and the next moment the thirteen-year-old smashed down onto the cement. The power rush he felt that day, had given him a thrill of satisfaction, but no once could point a finger at him. 

Matron Emily Cole had been suspicious. She always was, but even she could not put the blame on him for that. After all, he’d been standing five feet away when the other boy broke his arm and collarbone. Running a hand through his dark hair he ascended the creaky stairs and passed a small quack of children. A new boy, only recently orphaned, was pressed against the stair railing, held there by one of the resident bullies and Tom quickened his pace. He made it to the boy dorm rooms without a hitch and ignored Amy Benson’s sneered greeting. She and Dennis were probably mapping out their next adventure. Both children always bragged about their treasury hunts — while no one in their right mind gave a damn — never allowing too many people to play with them. 

Tom rolled his shoulders, pushed his bedroom door open — the rusty hinges creaking loudly — and stepped into his room. Benson called him ‘the Freak’ every chance she got. He hated her almost as much as he hated Billy and Dennis. The two boys took the greatest pleasure in getting others in trouble. The teachers who visited the orphanage, schooling the children as they always called it, always brought their own cane. The two boys were both impressively good at pushing the right buttons to get their peers into trouble. And trouble almost always ended in being caned. 

Tom pressed his lips angrily together. The worst caning he received was after he’d tried to run away — tried being the keyword — and was picked up at the station. He thought he could travel along on a train but Mrs Cole (less stupid than he’d given her credit for) intercepted him just before he were to enter the train.

He knew without a doubt, Amy was the one who’d sold him out. She must have seen him slip out during dinner two months ago, but so far, nothing like what had happened to Jamie Anderson had happened to her. Tom knew it had been his doing, even if he wasn’t sure how he had managed it. He might not have broken Amy yet, but at least he’d taught her to stay out of his room. A close call with a garden snake Tom had hidden in his desk drawer had seen to that. Still, he didn’t have the snake anymore. 

Amy had turned to the matron swifter than Tom could sneak the small creature out and had the woman killed it with the heel of her shoe. Tom had been smart enough to hide his affinity with the animals after that. He couldn’t help that he attracted them. That he could talk to them. 

And yet, instead of being impressed with his ability, the other children were afraid. Or at least they were freaked. His thin lips drew back in an unimpressed sneer and he leaned against the door. Room 27 was a solitary room, with one simple iron bed stand and an old wardrobe. He was the only boy who had a room to himself. It was lonely, but Tom was rather pleased with it. 

Gently he plucked the book he’d been reading the evening before from his bed and slowly approached the windowsill. Outside, the wind rattled the panes on the roof and the rain beat harshly against the single pane window. He slumped down on the windowsill, propping his leg up and leaning his arm on his knee. 

He had only turned seven a few days ago. 

It had been a dreary day just as well but at least Matron Cole had remembered. It was more than the year before and she even went as far and gifted him with a book. Dennis his clique had waited for ten whole minutes before their childish teasing started again. Somehow they’d figured out his dislike for his name. Tom was ever so mundane and while Marvollo wasn’t all that much better — peculiar and uncommon — he longed for the day he was old enough to he could run away from his home. 

The pages of his book rustled as he looked for the page he’d left on. Despite lessons at the orphanage most of the children at the orphanage were not literate. Most could barely write their name, yet, Tom excelled at his academics. It was another thing he was good at. It wasn’t something that did him much good though. 

Grounding his jaws together, Tom absentmindedly scratched at his arm. Outside coaches and the occasional motorcar travelled past and he stared at the horizon. He leant his head against the moist frame of the window and listened to the rainwater dripping from the roof, splattering rhythmically against the window. Of all the things he hated about his life, he hated the part where he cared the most. As young as he was, he understood that the anger and even the hurt came from caring about their opinions. 

He closed the book with an angry thud. It was too dark to read anyway and flung it back on his bed. Readjusting, he drew both legs on the window sill and stared at the darkened streets. A flash of light caught his attention and he frowned. A red automobile was steering up onto the gravel path towards the orphanage. That was unusual. 

No one, especially not in a car like that, ever visited the orphanage. And if someone with the actual means to take care of a child came, it wasn’t out of the good of their hearts. Tom shuddered. 

A child predator. 

He’d met one once. Pleasant and nice, but Tom had recognised the calculating eyes for what they were. They were never this rich though.

He watched with bathed breath as two man stepped out of the car. A third remained in the front seat of the car, seemingly a chauffeur and Tom’s curiosity was sparked. He couldn’t see their faces, but he supposed they were father and son. The younger one, with dark lush hair and a slender figure, rolled his shoulders awkwardly, while the older, grey hair already plastered to his face, scolded the younger.

Tom had been scolded often enough to recognise the signs.

He curiously pressed his face to the window to get a better look. They were silently moving towards the building.

To be continued...


	3. With my face

Chapter two, With my Face

Tom had pressed his face against the window, hoping to see the faces of the men, quickly moving towards the Orphanage, but till now he hadn’t had much luck. Apart from the lantern light colouring the elder man’s hair a light orange, which meant he was probably quite a bit older, and the lush dark hair of the younger, he had yet to see any of their features.

It was still raining and Tom gritted his teeth, roughly unbuttoning his coat. He hadn’t even noticed how unpleasant the wet material felt against him and it wasn’t like he would be adopted anyway. He threw another glance at the two men. They were still near the automobile, arguing by the looks of it. Tom decided to ignore them and kicked off his loafers, flopping back on the bed. 

“People!” Someone yelled from the hallways and loud footsteps sounded from the wooden landing. “There are two men coming here!”

Tom rolled his eyes, but a large horde passed his door and he sat up, staring at the window again. The two men started towards the building. It seemed they finally had stopped arguing. 

“Perhaps finally someone came to adopt me!” Billy Stubbs remarked and Tom felt his face blanch. No way in hell was Billy Stubbs getting adopted. Absolutely no way in hell!

Tom leapt to his feet. His bad day quickly forgotten, he silently crept towards the stair railings. Several other children had assembled there as well, probably noticing the arrival of the strangers as well.

“Do you think someone will be adopted?” One of the children whispered excitedly and Tom squashed the notion of turning around and stalking back to his room. He knew he wouldn’t be adopted. He wasn’t popular enough and most of all, he wasn’t able to present himself right. Even if he was already incredibly good looking with dark black hair, dark eyes and flawless pale skin, people were wary of him. Not to mention all the strange things that just seemed to happen around him. 

“What else do you think someone would come for?” Benson asked. She was tall for her eight-years-old and twirled a short lock of sandy blonde hair around her fingers. Tom wanted to tell her there were enough reasons to come her beside adopting some poor unfortunate soul but refrained. Getting into a petty argument meant being sent to his room without supper. His stomach twisted painfully. With the inflation, he often had to miss meals and he really didn’t need to miss them when there was actually some food to have.

Excited whispers filtered through the hall and Tom had to strain his ears, hoping to catch some of the conversations that had by now already been moved to Emily Cole’s office. It was the standard procedure. First, they would have a talk — and a drink — with Mrs Cole before any of the future parents could meet their new children.

‘To judge one’s character,’ Cole would often say. Yet, she wasn’t as keen to pick up on lies as Tom was, so he called it bull. 

Suddenly voices rose from the hallway. The children waited with bated breath and then the slender man stepped into the hall. Several children waved at him, trying to get his attention, but the man still had to look up. He was too busy arguing with the school matron and his shoulders were tense. 

Tom let his eyes wander over the man’s form. He was dressed in an expensive travel coat. He’d only ever seen such quality clothes in the centre of London. Certainly not in the suburbs where the Orphanage was located. 

“—can’t see him now!” Mrs Cole snapped, quickly stepping into the hall as well, her eyes flitting up and about and the older man, he was definitely old, stepped up beside her. His face was worn and the expression cold. There was something in the man’s face that seemed familiar to Tom and he leaned over the railing. 

“I can do as I bloody well please,” the young man snapped and Mrs Cole grimaced.

“Please Mister,” Mrs Cole pleaded, “you can’t just barge in here and drag the boy away. It will be ever such a shock and—”

“With all due respect, Madam Cole,” the older man started. It didn’t sound like he felt all that much respect and stepped up beside his son, gripping his shoulder hard. “But if you have the child we seek, it would be wise to point him out.”

“Father—”

“Look behind you, boy,” the older snapped, “they’ve all accumulated at the top of the stairs.” 

With a huff, the younger turned and stared up at the children. They stared curiously back at him. All curious, almost-round faces, peering curiously down at the two men. None of them truly understood the implications it seemed but Tom— Tom suddenly did and his breath hitched.

For all he had expected to happen, it hadn’t been this. Tom felt his mouth slack open and was vaguely aware of several eyes on him. That man. The man was standing at the foot of the stairs. Tom’s father, because there was no question about that, had the same dark curls, handsomely combed backwards. The aquiline nose and sharp cut jaw with the high cheekbones. The man even had the same pale face and dark eyes and Tom— 

Tom was at a loss. Fairytales were supposed to be just that. Not real and only for the weak who chased make-believes. Certainly not for him. Tom was above that.

The young man took another step forward and someone shoved Tom forward. He stumbled slightly, inelegantly, catching himself on the chair railing.

“He has a dad?” Someone close to him asked and Tom could only mutely watch as the man’s eyes grew wide. This man did not have to wonder if he was looking at the right child. Not even the small amount of baby-fat around his cheeks or the quickly flushing cheeks could hide their obvious relation. Tom’s father’s face had gone a ghostly white and the father seemed surprised as well. Seeing Tom seemed to be just as much of a surprise for him as seeing this older version of himself was for Tom.

“That’s him,”

“Madam Cole?” The older man snapped irritated, making a hand gesture to Tom.

“Right, Tom, dear, please come downstairs.”

“Tom?”

“It was his mother’s dying wish,” Mrs Cole volunteered somewhat unwillingly and as Tom descended down the stairs unsure of what he should do the young man rubbed at his eyes in what he could only suspect was hysteria. Tom could not deal with another adult going insane on him this day. The unhelpful library assistant had already done that, forcing him to listen through one of her hysterical fits because some random guy had tried to hit on her (while she was married). Tom certainly hadn’t cared for her and her problems. He couldn’t understand why anyone would hit on someone who was that idiotic. 

Tom shook his head helplessly, taking a step back when the tall man crouched down before him until his face was on eye level. Dark eyes flitted up and down Tom’s form as if looking for any flaws and Tom looked back. He was not afraid. 

This man— his thoughts, they didn’t make sense. Due to his uncanny ability to pick up on thoughts of those around him, he could pick up on this man’s as well but— His father, but— 

“You don’t look like her—”

It didn’t make sense.

Tom wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do, but suddenly he found himself pressed against a warm chest. He just stood there stiffly as the man, his father, blubbered all of his sorrows into his neck. The older man was looking at them with a tired look. Tom didn’t even need to pry into his mind, to know he was somewhat disturbed by his grown-up son crying like a child. 

“Mister Riddle—” Mrs Cole started carefully when after several minutes the older Riddle still made no attempt to disentangle himself from the eight-year-old, “—perhaps we should take this somewhere private?”

“Yes,” Tom’s father agreed, but his arms remained tightly wrapped around Tom’s shoulders.

The older man, Tom’s grandfather waved his hand impatiently, steering the small party away from the prying eyes of Tom’s peers. How exactly the man managed, he didn’t know but not once did the slender man let go of his son. Only when Tom started to get increasingly uncomfortable, did he start to squirm.

“Could you let go now?” Tom asked slowly. His face had grown so hot, he must by now resemble a tomato.

“Right,” the slender man whispered. The shine in his eyes was suspiciously like tears and he straightened himself. “I— I told you, father,” he whispered urgently, looking back at the terse looking man behind him, “I told you I wasn’t crazy.”

Tom wasn’t so sure if he was not. This whole situation didn’t make much sense to him and he stared at Cole. He wasn’t particularly fond of her, but at least she would be able to explain what was going on. She caught his burning glare and slowly inched towards the tumbler full of amber liquid. They hadn’t even had dinner yet…

He supposed it was going to be a long evening…

To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, I hope you'll enjoyed the next chapter. Thank you for your kind words (and the Kudos); I am very glad you all enjoy this story. The next update will be next week and I hope everyone keeps enjoying this story. The first few chapters will focus on Young-Tom the most and when some sort of relationship is established, we'll continue to a Tom who's grown up a bit...
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!


	4. The Irony of fate

11 November 1933  
Tom Edwardian Riddle sat behind his desk in his office, staring at his notebook with a deep frown between his eyebrows. His parents were in the parlour discussing his mental health as if he couldn’t walk in on them any second. With every day that passed they grew more concerned with him and no matter how many therapists he saw, or how many privet detectives he hired, to them, he didn’t get better. Even though he stopped confining himself to his room, went out to town, ignored the heated whispers that followed him and shook the hands of women (with bated breath and tensed shoulders) his father introduced to him, they remained convinced he was damaged for life.

The worst part was that he couldn’t even really blame his parents. In many ways, his obsession with his heir — for he knew for sure there must be one — was born out of a fear for women. He needed this child to be real because he was not getting anywhere near a woman if he had anything to say about it. At least, he was better at hiding it now. After returning home a bit over seven years ago, he’d been a wreck, only a shadow of the prideful boy he’d used to be. 

It was only because of his doting mother (and the lack of an heir), that his father refrained from disowning him. For Thomas Riddle, Tom had been nothing but a burden the last few years and even worse, instead of the prized stallion, he’d been the laughing stock of the village. All of them had been gleefully watching as Tom fell. And oh, had Tom fallen. When he’d found back most o this mind and escaped from Merope, Tom had wandered the dreadful streets of London in a cloud of confusion and fear, until an old man had taken pity on him and drove him several miles to his home (perhaps thinking about the reward a wealthy family would gift him with).

Running his fingers through his dark hair, he squeezed his eyes shut, thinking about his breathing. 

The only one who had been more furious than his father would have been the old beggar himself. Marvollo Gaunt had almost thrown himself at Tom when his father had threatened him outside and hissed all kind of insults at him. Several of them he’d not understood (although he understood the message) and he’d made sure to not come near the little Gaunt house again. Even without the grazed Gaunt Senior, the house served only bad memories, and he certainly didn’t need flashbacks of a dissolved looking Merope offering him what he thought was a glass of water on a hot summer day. Yes, that glass of water had been the beginning of the seven blurry months he spent with Merope and although almost none of his memories was very clear, the mere memory of the woman had made him unable to sleep and woke him up in the middle of the night, screaming.

No therapist or even the occasional psychiatrist had been able to dissuade him from his firm beliefs that Merope had bewitched him and although his parents had been very unhappy about it, none had been able to get him near a woman either. Although he managed to shake hands with one when it was absolutely necessary and nod at his maids when it was expected, he had not been able to get truly close to any. 

Lacing his fingers together, Tom ground his teeth together and tried to distract himself, while he waited for his appointment. A shabby man, going by the name of Rudolf Schneider, had promised Tom over the phone that, if a child born from him existed, he would find it and although Rudolf hardly looked like the trustworthy lot, Tom had an uncanny faith in the man. 

Outside the rain was spattering down in heavy droplets and rivulets of water trailed down the windows and leaked out of the drains in gullets. He vaguely remembered that he used to like the rain as a child and watched the muddy lawns and backyard. The rain was so heavy, even the small village of Little Hangleton was difficult to make out and he smiled tightly. If only the rain could wash away his memories like it could do with the vision of the crummy village.

He’d been in the middle of fantasising the erasing of Priest Jonathan (who was sure he would go to hell for whatever it was he thought was a mortal sin) when his mother, Mary Riddle stepped into his office. Rudolf Schneider, dressed in an old brown trench coat, dark trousers and a scarf that had seen better days, smirked at him, several rotten teeth visible and Tom’s smile became strained. 

“Mister Schneider, how do you do?” He greeted, shaking the man’s hand. 

“Very fine, Mister Riddle.” Schneider retorted, unaware of the dissatisfied gaze he received from Tom’s mother.

 

Mary Riddle stared at the man with a scrunched up nose and it was only after several seconds before she noticed his gaze: “Mother?”

“Nothing Darling.” She sighed and the door clicked shut behind her. Tom waited until her footsteps faded down the landing and nodded at a chair in front of his desk.

“And—” Tom began, “I trust you found me something.”

Schneider smiled: “Of course, I did.” Before rubbing thumb and index finger together. “For a prize of course.”

Tom pressed his lips tightly together before reaching for his chequebook. “It better be good.”

“I promise you, my good Sir, it is.” 

With an exaggerated flourish, he signed the agreed sum and placed the paper in front of the shabby-looking man. Schneider smiled broadly, patting the paper before putting it away in his breast pocket. “Very glad doing business with you, Young mister Riddle.”

“Hm, the information, Rudolf.”

“Of course, Merope Riddle nee Gaunt is dead.” 

For some reason Tom had not expected that and he froze, watching as Schneider crossed his legs at the ankles. He’d expected to go behind Merope’s back and snatch the child away from her (who knew what horrors the child would grow up with under Merope’s tutelage). He’d even considered hiring another kind of professional, one that would take care of Merope but now— She was dead and he did not need to do anything. 

“She’s dead?”

“Already for seven years in two months.” 

“And— the child?”

“She had a son before she died,” Schneider admitted. “From what I understood he is the striking image of you. Dark hair and handsome. Even found out where he is now.”

“Where?” 

He’s at Wool’s Orphanage in London.”

Then Wool’s Orphanage London, was where Tom would go and he curled his fingers tightly around the pen he was still holding: “I see.”

 

04 January 1934  
Tom Marvollo Riddle was fuming. There was no other way to put it. After a very distressful night at a hotel (he had never been in a hotel, how did these two idiot look-a-likes think an orphan could afford to stay into a hotel), his father had attempted a thorough interrogation. His father… 

Tom Edwardian Riddle… 

It was somewhat laughable that the name Tom detested so much was not the only trait they had in common. Seven-year-old Tom Riddle scowled, wrapping his father’s large coat tightly around his shoulder. He’d been cold and his father, still blubbering — ‘that woman hadn’t been lying and look how much he looked like him’ — into his hands, had wrapped it so tightly around Tom’s shoulders, he almost strangled him with it. Tom glared at the older man and ground his teeth together. 

Tom’s father had the same appearance, the same name and even the same habits (at least the ones he had displayed by now). When he read the morning paper the morning after he’d practically dragged Tom and his trunk out of the orphanage (a reluctant grandfather in tow), he sucked his cheeks between his molars, chewing on his lower lip. It was an unconscious habit, but one Tom himself displayed when reading as well. 

It was obvious to Tom that Tom Riddle Senior, was not the best father material. Apart from the distressed moment where he’d launched himself upon a very unsuspecting seven-year-old, he had been gravely unsure what a father was supposed to do. Tom was sure a father wasn’t supposed to blubber and stumble, nor was he supposed to argue his sanity to his grandfather.

The trees began to thin and the light was changing. Tom Marvollo Riddle fidgeted in his seat and stared at his fingers. He was surrounded by expensive feelings and smelling leather and he’d never felt more nervous than he felt now. The two men, his father and grandfather, occasionally shot him curious glances, but at least had stopped trying to talk to him. They’d tried, quite forcefully really, but Tom had remained mute, staring at his hands, counting his fingers. At some point, the adults had gathered he didn’t want to talk about his life at the orphanage, his (non-existent) friends and he didn’t care what kind of automobile they were driving in. It wasn’t like the name SS Jaguar meant anything to him anyway. 

A very watery sun broke through the clouds and Tom peeked out of the window. The rain had abated hours ago, but instead, a thick fog was roiling around the automobile. Down the slope a town with little houses greeted him. It was nestled between two steep hills and the tower of a strangely large church greeted him. 

“That’s Little Hangleton.” Tom Riddle, his father, said, leaning his elbows on his knees. “It might be small but we own ninety precent of the village.”

“Hm,” Tom answered, his eyes remained fixed on the church and hoped his father would leave it at that. He had no such luck. 

“If you look to your right you can see the manor,” his father continued, leaning over Tom’s shoulder and pointing at a handsome manor house. It was— large, surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawns and Tom realised with a pang of worry that they were moving towards it.

“The gardens are open to you and you can go and see the horses, but don’t move past the fence. The citizens aren’t— fond of us. Money and power do that to people.” 

Tom slowly moved his gaze from the manor and stared at his father. Hoping he would see he wasn’t serious, but the grave expression on his face told him otherwise. So instead of being locked up in his room at the orphanage, he would be locked up in an admiringly large manor? Such luck he had.

The car moved up the gravel path and Tom moodily glared at the stable pasture. The chauffeur, because why not have a chauffeur if you have money to burn and all, stopped the car in front of the manor. 

His grandfather left the car without a word and directed the chauffeur — whose name Tom did no longer remember — to the house. The man, broad-shouldered and greying hair, nodded curtly and proceeded in taking Tom’s measly possessions into the house. Everything he’d owned had all fitted in the rattiest trunk Mrs Cole had owned and now he was carrying it inside.

He grimaced.

It didn’t seem like something that would ever belong in such a house. 

“Are you coming, Tom?” Tom Riddle senior asked almost pleasantly, wiping his hands on his trousers. They must have been sweaty. 

Tom looked up at the man. Tall and regal, expectantly waiting for him to follow him. With a slight bit of hesitation, he finally jumped out of the car before his father could offer to give him a hand. He did not need one. 

“There are three floors.” Tom Senior explained and Tom wrapped the big coat tighter around him, absentmindedly listening to his father while carefully spying around. The gardens were large and in the distance, a high iron-wrought fence shimmered. Tom Senior must have noticed his wandering stare and before he stepped inside, crouched down before him. “You must promise me not venture outside these fences without someone to chaperone you.”

Tom’s cheeks flushed. “Chaperone me?”

“Yes, I understand this is new for you, but the villagers— you are young and they will try and use you.” He stated. “For now, you won’t go outside the fence without me or anyone I deem worthy.”

Tom bristled: “And what if I do.”

Tom Senior’s eyes narrowed: “Then you’ll be grounded.”

Tom stared open-mouthed at him. He’d never been grounded in his life. Gotten scolded and sent to his room without food, yes. Being caned on his back and sneered at, yes. But being grounded—

He stomped his foot in anger and stalked past him, glaring at the front door; willing it to open. It did.

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: First, Little Tom is resentful and perhaps a little bit moody. Don’t expect him to know how to charm people immediately, but at least his father won’t throw a hissy fit when the accidental magic starts. At least, not as much as others (he might throw a hissy fit either way).
> 
> Second, according to Wikipedia Tom Riddle Sr was born in August 1905. Which means, if you do the maths, he would be 28 years old in January 1934.


	5. To have a home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And here is chapter four. Thank you for all your support (comments, bookmarks and kudos). I hope you’ll enjoyed it and like always; let me know what you'll think:)

Chapter Four, To Have a Home

Inhaling sharply, Tom trembled slightly as he stood still on the doorstep, staring up at the large manor. Not even in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined his father to be this extremely rich and he stiffened as the door in front of him opened sharply. An older woman he had never seen before stood in its opening and her eyes widened at the sight of him. Tom couldn’t say if it was a good or a bad sign because almost immediately she averted her eyes and stared almost open mouthed at Tom’s father, who by now was standing behind him, a hand (which was probably meant to be soothing, but after the faint breath of being grounded it was anything but) on his shoulder. 

“Oh my God,” The woman whispered softly and she crouched down before him. Tom swallowed. His heart was beating so fast, he could feel it drumming rhythmically against his ribcage and the woman in front of him was now slowly, carefully tracing his cheekbones with the pad of her index finger. Tom wasn’t used to be touched, unless it was during a scuffle or when one of the matrons dragged him to his room. “Oh my God, Tommie, he looks so much like you.”

“I know mother.” His father responded, tightening his grip on Tom’s shoulder and he winced slightly. 

“Well,” she whispered, running her fingers through her greying hair, “I really didn’t think you were right.”

That was an odd thing to say and Tom could only oblige when his father pushed him inside the manor. It was warm in the house and Tom flinched strongly when a girl, dressed in what could only be a maid-uniform took his father’s coat off his shoulders. She scurried off, shooting several long curious looks at him before disappearing through what seemed like some kind of small door. Where those servant quarters?

For the longest time, even after he was settled in the living room with all kinds of luxury surrounding him, his grandmother kept staring at his face. Her thoughts were similar as his father’s had been. She was surprised he didn’t look much like her, before sharing a look with his grandfather.

“A child Thomas,” his grandmother whispered and Tom heard the slightest hint of happiness colouring it. “A grandchild.”

“Just as I said.” Tom’s father said proudly, unnecessarily ruffling his curly hair. Tom shook his head in an attempt to dislodge his father, but Tom Riddle Senior was not faced and smiled brightly at him. “I just knew— you had to be real.”

Tom scoffed: “Than why did you only come now?” 

Tom Senior stiffened and slowly crouched down in front of him, catching one of Tom’s hands. “I wasn’t— sure— not truly. And what if you didn’t really exist. Or— Where you were.”

That had not been the answer he’d required and he tugged uselessly at his hand. “I grew up in Wool’s Orphanage these past few years. How could you not know about me?”

In his ideas pregnancies were very obvious. You could hardly hide a growing stomach like one of the older girls at Wool’s had tried.

“Tom, what do you know about your mother?”

Tom knew practically nothing about his mother. Just that she wasn’t very beautiful and that Missus Cole thought she’d belonged at a circus. He wasn’t going to admit that of course and he pressed his lips stiffly together. Tom Senior’s face was oddly serious, but his eyes unreadable. His thoughts were a lot less chaotic and he must have know how to school them, because he couldn’t really tell what he was thinking. 

It was unusual and again, Tom tried to peel his hand out of his father’s much larger one.

“Your mother and I—” he started and he noticed the elderly woman, his grandmother take a step towards her son. His grandfather intervened nicely.

“Common Mary, this is something Tom should do on his own.”

Tom Senior for his part was still searching for his words, as if explaining about his mother was a very difficult task and Tom stopped struggling. The muscles in his neck felt still tensed and he was ready to bolt, but at least he managed to leave his hand in his father’s. 

“Your mother was from a different background.” Tom Senior decided on and Tom thought it sounded like an understatement. “You see, we weren’t close and I can’t exactly explain how or why, because I don’t understand it myself, but we had— a falling-out.”

“A falling-out?”

“Yes, she lied to me—” he started before cutting himself off; if anything Tom Riddle Senior looked exceedingly troubled. “You must understand, Tom, we weren’t in love. Your mother wasn’t in love with me. Her family was just very unkind to her and I don’t think she understood the difference between love and obsession— and this is the wrong thing to say to you—”

“I’m not some stupid child,” Tom inserted and his cheeks flushed with righteous anger. “You don’t have to speak to me in riddles, just speak to me.” 

“Your mother could do things.” Tom Senior finally continued. “She could make others do what she wanted just like that…” 

Tom’s eyes widened. He could do things.

“Yes,” Tom senior admitted, correctly interpreting Tom’s expression. “You might be able to do things as well. As it is, she used that— gift—” It was obvious, Tom senior didn’t think of it as a gift, “to make me do what she wanted. When it stopped working we— got into a fight. I didn’t believe her when she said she was pregnant. She’d deceived me before, so I had no reason to believe her.”

Tom pressed his lips together. As far as he was concerned his father had every reason to believe her. He was here, wasn’t he? He had been born and had grown up in that hellhole where the adults thought he was a little devil and those stupid children singled him out every time they thought they could get away with it (which was often).

His expression must have been dark and furious because his father averted his eyes and he felt an emotion he’d never felt before. Regret. Tom didn’t often regretted his actions and it was strange, seeing someone who looked so much alike experiencing it. He looked away, the anger still burning in his veins and his father took several seconds to collect his wits enough to speak again.

“I realise it must have been very hard, but I’m here now. And I’ll stay here.” He whispered and Tom blinked profusely against the embarrassing sting of what must have been tears. 

Sometimes, not often, he’d fantasised about this man, this foolish, idiotic man, to come for him, but right now— This felt so surreal, he was sure that the moment he allowed the man to come close to him he would wake up and feel even worse about his living situation at Wool’s. But—

He slowly met his father’s eyes: “Proof it.”

“I will, I promise.” His father whispered and twined his fingers together. “You’re free to wander around the manner. We will have dinner in an hour.” 

Tom watched his tall form leave the room and he remained seated still in the chair in the living room before slowly jumping to his feet. Now was as good as any time to go through the house properly. Tom liked to know everything. And right now, he didn’t know this place. Shivering, he trailed his fingers across one of the cabinets against one wall, peering at the black-and-white pictures placed neatly on the dark wood. There was one of his father as a teenager, already tall and regal, sitting oddly straight on the back of a large dark horse.

Tom opened the windows, leaning outside, not sure what he thought to see and frowned. There was some kind of shed at the far edge of the properties and beside the tall iron-wrought fence there was also an equally tall dark-green hedge. Tom pulled back slowly and crossed the room, out into the hall. A maid, freckles around her nose and reddish hair, smiled at her, wondering if she should point him to his room. Tom declined almost pleasantly. He was quite sure his ratty old trunk would be easily spotted when he found the room that would be his. He passed a study, with a desk, a sofa and a cabinet and along the side he even noticed an old, yet beautiful brass microscope, the kitchens were he didn’t have any business (according to an irritate looking man) and a bright parlour. Everything was full of luxury, lavish carpets and beautiful valuable objects, either made from porcelain, ivory or gold. 

On the first floor he found three bathrooms and several bedrooms, one of them indeed his (easily recognisable by the ratty trunk sticking out from under the dark four-poster bed) and at the end of one of the hallways a reasonable large library was situated. Tom smiled, actually smiled, breezingly when he noticed the amount of books. 

His father must have accounted for something if he owned this much knowledge.

Tom stopped out on the silent carpet and again looked in every last one of the cabinets in turn. Prized, old works were delicately stored away. There was a desk, rather long, filled with neatly piled books and papers and on the mantlepiece at the end of the room, more pictures were situated. 

He wondered absentmindedly if he could take one of the books, but didn’t dare. Mrs Cole would always keep his books away if he took them without asking (he was after all the only one who took them) and he really didn’t want to be sent back to Wool’s until he read at least several of them. 

Moving back, out of the library he passed the bedrooms again, stopping in front of one. It wasn’t his own. He knew, but, his eyebrows furrowing, there was something that pulled him in anyway. The room was square, with a large window, making the room seem light while the interior was mostly anthracite. There was a beautifully decorated bed, with lush dark green pillows and slowly, Tom neared it. The mattress was thick, yet soft and he pressed his hands against it. 

His nose twitched when he breathed in sharply and finally recognised the scent. 

He was recognising it as his father’s expensive cologne and his face turned a dark shade of red. Was that why he was pulled inside. He stumbled back, almost toppling over his own feet and scurried out of the room. He would wander around the manor another time…


	6. Common ground

Chapter Five, Common Ground

The rain storm that had briefly elevated when Tom Edwardian Riddle and his father Thomas brought one young Tom Marvollo Riddle home, had returned to full strength. The trees around the manor almost bent double in the howling wind and the rain splashed harshly against the windows. Over the wireless radio a newsreader spoke about the growing tension between Germany and the rest of Europe, but Tom Senior had little interest for the bordering conflict nor for the strong speaker Adolf Hitler seemed to be. 

“I’d truly believed he didn’t exist.” Mary Riddle whispered, taking a slow sip of the tea that must have been already cold. 

Tom slowly, carefully flattened his hands over the knees of his slacks and sighed: “I quite hoped he would not have lived at a dump like Wool’s.”

After dinner, which was spent mostly in silence with young Tom categorising his foods and scrunching his nose to all he didn’t know (though he ate it like a starved man either way), Tom Senior tucked Tom in to bed with the promise of letting him explore the manor on his own the next day. His son was quite a lot smarter than the average child and with every thing he said, he actually needed to explain his reasons. It was rather obvious that little Tom didn’t trust him. The matron, whom he wondered if he could sue for the blatant incompetence of taking care of children, said he didn’t do well with youths his age.

“But he did.” Tom Senior whispered and crossed his ankles, looking at his mother: “And I think it’s because of that, that he’s not very trusting.” 

“Yet, he looks quite a lot like you. Has your eyes.” Mary told him sardonically and he barely refrained from rollin his eyes.

His father however, didn’t refrain and snorted loudly dropping his stock options on the coffee table: “He had quite more than just his eyes, Mary. He has his eyes, his hair, his face. I’m sure he might have his stubbornness.”

“Thomas,” 

Tom glared at his father as he shrugged unapologetically. “I’m not going to be gentle on your feelings, boy. This is your mess and you’ve got to deal with it. This child has every reason to distrust you and most of all, how do you think he’ll react when he finds out you ran out of his mother?”

“You are worried about your reputation?” Tom asked irritatedly. “That’s it right? It’s always your bloody reputation. You’re not worried about him asking, you’re worried about others asking about his mother.”

“You never understood what reputation truly means in this game.” His father started. “And that girl—”

“You came with me!”

“Well, I didn’t truly think there really was a child. Not without his mother coming for us and wanting money.”

“She was obsessed with me.” Tom snapped back. “Why would you seriously think she would come for money. If she came she would have come for me and bewitched me again.”

“Oh Tom,” his mother sighed. “I thought you got over this.” 

Tom pressed his face into his hands and growled. He truly thought his parents for once got his back. “He might be like his mother in that aspect, but he’s like me too.” 

His mother sighed again and he heard her push Thomas Riddle out of the room. He peered to the table through the gaps between his fingers and pursed his lips. There were a lot of things he needed to take care of. He closed his eyes and growled softly when, once again a woman with lank hair a gaunt, pale face and eyes staring in opposite directions appeared on the forefront of his mind. He thought about Merope Gaunt often and no matter when, he always felt disgusted. The idea at how, through which actions, his son came to be only added up to the disgust. He still did not feel comfortable around other women. Did not feel comfortable away from the manor and out into town. 

Tom growled again. He’d had been sure Merope tried to deceive him once again when she told him, she was pregnant. At that time, it hadn’t even occurred to him to believe her, no, his hesitation with the truth about her words came later. He regretted that his own blood had to grow up in an orphanage. He didn’t doubt how lonely that must have been for a child who was smarter than the average child and most like had inherited the same weirdness his mother had. Yet, even despite the weirdness, magic Merope had called it, he would take care of this child.

He would be responsible. 

He would raise him in a way his mother had not been. He would give him proper moral understanding and would teach him not to go around casting spells or dosing people with— potions just because he could. No, his son would be a strong powerful being who had no need for that. He would see to that and he would make sure his son, who was now blissfully asleep, would get the best of everything.

I-I. ⌡. Γ┐

The first few days passed in a daze. Tom was an intelligent boy. No matter how much Missus Cole had disliked him, that had been a fact she’d never been able to lie about. It was because of that intelligence he was often excused from classes and allowed to gain access to books a bit more mature for him (never too mature, there wasn’t enough money for truly good books). Yet, no matter how intelligent Tom was, everything around him felt surreal. Not even in his most wonderful, exaggerating dreams had his father been quite this wealthy. The house was grand, the lawns were big and the servants came to every whim and call. But most of all, the Riddles were wealthy enough, to own this many books. 

Tom craned his neck to look up at one of the large bookstands in the library. It was filled from head to toe with books and he got to his tip-toes, letting a trembling hand trace the spines, until settling on that of a dark-brown book, the Principles of Biology, when the door behind him creaked open. His father, who Tom had been dutifully ignoring as punishment for taking so long to find him, stared at him from the door opening.

“Good morning, Tom.” He greeted softly and Tom’s fingers froze in front of the book’s spine. His father’s eyes remained on the book. “Ah, you like to read?”

Tom frowned before slowly nodding. There were two maids getting in behind his father, one of whom tucked him in, in the five evenings he’d been here. She was some kind of mother hen who’d decided she needed to save him and the other who brought him the expensive clothes he was expected to wear. Now they were looking at him expectantly. 

“That’s good.” Tom Senior decided. “Miss Cole did already say you were very good at academics.”

“Yes.”

Tom senior smiled, he seemed genuinely pleased about it: “I’m very glad. Now I know that the Orphanage didn’t have to means to look after your academical needs—”

“Not really, no.” He admitted slowly. The maids were still watching him and he self-consciously pressed himself against the bookcase. “Why are they here?”

“Oh,” Tom Senior said, “Megan wants to know what you want to eat and Cindy wants to help find you something to wear. I thought it might be nice to see the grounds?”

Tom’s mouth drew back in a tight sneer but in the end his father was bigger. Bigger people were stronger and he didn’t think he should push his father any further. “If that’s what you desire, sure.”

“You make it sound really special.” Tom Senior snorted and Tom glowered hostilely at him. 

His father often looked oddly at him. He wasn’t unused to be at the receiving end of those odd looks, but Tom Riddle Senior did not look at him as if he was touched. No, he rather looked at him as if was waiting for something. As if Tom could do something that would prove him right, and his father had expectations about it. For Tom, it made absolutely no sense. 

“You can take the book with you, if you want?” Tom Senior told him and Tom plucked the book from the shelf before allowing Megan to shoe him out — ‘Young Master shouldn’t walk around the manor in only his pyjama’ — and followed Cindy to his room. He’d received a nice room, with heavy curtains, a nice soft bed with a beautifully carved headboard and a desk and a chair (both whom didn’t creak ominously when sat on them), but he still feared that Tom Senior would decided he didn’t want a child and would return him to the orphanage. Adults weren’t to be trusted. 

He’d seen what had happened to Mad Mary, who’d been shipped of to an alyssum. Tom knew what people did to people they considered mad. He’d heard all of the stories and he truly didn’t want to be injected chemicals, which would supposedly cure madness, or God forbid something with electric currency. He must have paled considerably, because Cindy patted his shoulder.

“Young Master?” 

He straightened himself fast enough: “What does one wear to town?”

She smiled, if not tightly and placed several sets of clothes on the bed. The socks alone were worth more than his complete outfit from Wool’s and he curled his fingers tightly into the hem of his pyjama shirt. He deserved this. 

“One dresses smartly,” she retorted, “but Young Master, know that Master Riddle does not venture out to town that often anymore. I don’t think he means to take you to town.”

“Than what does he want to do.” 

“The grounds are very large, Young Master.”

Tom felt a muscle above his eyes twitch. He wasn’t used to being cooped up somewhere. No matter that this manor and the grounds were far larger than Wool’s, he could always venture out into London (although he wasn’t always allowed to do that either).

He pressed his lips tightly together and picked out brown slacks a dark shirt and a thick grey-brown guardian. He fitted into them rather well and Tom slowly made his way to the front-door. His father was waiting for him, and although it was silly he felt something in his stomach tighten. 

“Ready to go, Tom?”

“You’re not taking me out of the gardens, will you?”

“These grounds are very large, my boy.” His father answered. “I’ll take you to the village when the weather is a bit better.”

“Right.” Tom pursed his lips. He would figure out why the little village of Little Hangleton was out of bounds. He would, at least eventually.

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that is chapter five. I’m trying to keep the chapters going on at least at a weekly rate and therefore they are a bit shorter than the chapters of my older stories. Also this will be the last chapter of the introduction. The next chapter there will be a leap of several months (Tom will still be a child). I don’t think people would appreciate the pacing if I would keep writing a day-to-day story in the life of a child. Also, there will be somewhat of a progression with Tom and his father. Right now, Tom still chooses to be resentful…
> 
> Leave a review^^


	7. Dear Uncle

Chapter Six, Dear Uncle

It was a lovely late April day in Little Hangleton and Tom Marvollo Riddle had slowly, but surely, had adapted well to the small village. Warm rays of the early summer sun sprawled out onto the well-trimmed gardens of the large Riddle Manor and a soft breeze blew through the trees. Although Tom had gotten closer to his grandparents, his father was still a virtual stranger. He wasn’t a bad father per se, but Tom Senior was difficult to understand. His thoughts often would stray towards a woman, hair matted and eyes askew. She was certainly not beautiful and from what Tom gathered, that must have been his mother. His father had been terrified of her, but he had yet to understand why he thought her so frightening. Yes, his father had told him she could do things, but aside from her less than stellar looks, he did not yet find a memory where she used any of the gifts Tom had against his father. 

“Ah young Master,” 

Tom almost sighed. His private teacher, a middle-aged man with greying hair, stepped up into the lawn. He was a spindly man with half-moon spectacles and there was no subject more interesting than the English literature. Tom didn’t hate English literature, but there was so much more than Hamlet to study on this planet.

“Good afternoon Mister Heartrow.” 

“I was very impressed with your written examination on Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of the species. Even so, it is a very difficult subject and I’m afraid you’re not challenged during your lessons.”

That was an understatement. Mister Heartow was there to discuss his marks and academic level, before he would start in a real school in September. Tom Senior never quite admitted it, but he thought it was better to wait with enrolling him until he was fully used to his new environment. His grandparents, especially the grandmother who smelled like old lady, seemed to agree, if only to spoil him. 

Tom had never been spoiled before, but he was quite sure that in the last three months he’d received more presents than in the past seven years in Wool’s. His teacher was still talking.

“I think you might even manage to enrol in Oxford, before you reach the age of an adult.” He smiled as if his brains and knowledge was solely due to his teachings. “Yes, I think you might be close to a genius.” 

Tom watched his teacher go, a spring in his step, entering the parlour. He could see Thomas Riddle was already waiting for him. Thomas was in charge of most of the families affairs, if it was social or even if it had to do with real business. Tom had quickly learned that he had the last say in everything. 

Sighing, he stretched his legs and stared out over the expanse of the garden. After three months, he still had not been outside his gardens. He still had not seen Little Hangleton for himself and longingly he stared at the large hedges. They were too large to climb and the fence had pointy things atop of it, which could possibly pierce him if he slipped. Moving things and making animals do what he wanted was quite different from flying over a hedge of a fence. 

His eyes narrowed. 

The hedge was moving. Quite violently even and slowly Tom moved closer. The air was warm and slightly humid and the sun shone gently on his shoulder and against his neck. He ignored all those sensations in faro of the warm prickles curling up spine and spreading down his limbs. 

The fence moved again and the branches shuddered as he approached. Perhaps he could move through it. He thought he might be able to pass through it, if the branches kept moving, creating almost something like a hole. Small branches, sprouted with dark green twigs trembled again and surely they pulled away from each other. Tom blinked profusely and carefully peeked around. 

He never noticed the hooded eyes that were watching him and quickly, he passed through the fence, stumbling out onto a grassy plain. He was atop of the hill, but now he was outside the gardens and far enough away from the manor to truly look around. The village was not too far away from here, he could see smoke curl up into the air and he noticed the red-brown roofs of the houses. 

Tom curiously followed a narrow path down the slope and into the lush forest. He looked around, noticed the greenish moss on the tree trunks, determining that the manor must be west. That was good information if he got somewhat lost. 

A garden snake, slithered around a small bush hundredth metres away from the large hedge keeping the manor temporarily out of view and Tom grinned. 

“Hello,”

She was green, her scales glinting silver in the sun and she looked up at him startled: “Speaker, are you going to eat me?”

It was an odd question. As far as Tom knew humans usually didn’t eat snakes. At least they had not at Wool’s, nor had they ever been part of the grand dinners his grandfather always insisted on.

“Of course not. Why would I?”

“The other does.” The snake hissed, her head bobbling up and down as she looked him up and down. “Of course, you don’t look like them.” 

“Them?”

“Them down the river.” The snake told him matter of factly. “There were the juicy toads are.”

That got Tom curious enough and after nodding to the snake, he ventured deeper into the woods, trying to memorise the view around. In the distance he could hear water run and the world was burst into brilliance in the sudden hard glare of the sun and Tom winced slightly when he stepped on a twig, the sound strangely harsh in the odd silence. There was no one around, not even the little wildlife that should, yet suddenly something felt off. 

He stepped off the path a bit, just to feed his curiosity and to dislodge the odd feeling that gripped at his stomach. The sun shone full in his face and the land sloped further down and then up again. Long shadows of the trees lay forward him and he saw pigeons flock up a high branch. Didn’t those normally scurry around for food?

The grass was knee-high, and below a low-lying bush, white daisies popped. He had never seen those before, if not in a book and he stared at them for several minutes. 

He moved on, watching a mossy fissure full of water and jerked to a stop again. There was an expired shack not too far away. It was an odd little shack, just down the narrow path and a dead snake was pinned on the door. Tom frowned. Who would do that to a snake? Most people were to afraid for them to actively seek them out, even less to pin them to your door. Might the owner, because the snake looked fresh enough, be part of a satanic cult? Mrs Cole had always spoked badly about those. 

A carrion of crows wheeled in the air, screeching loudly and Tom suddenly felt a jolt of sickness as he watched the snake again. There was a small trail of blood running down its tail. It was fresh, dropping on the forest floor and he slowly took a step back, his survival instinct telling him to leave this place.

If only he had listened to the foreboding signs sooner. The bush to his side shook violently and before he could say anything a deranged looking man, because gorillas shouldn’t be inhabiting this part of England even less this part of the world, stormed out. He had thick, long hair matted with dirt, was missing many of his teeth and those still present were coloured a deep dark brown, while small dark eyes stared in opposite directions, one of them fixated on Tom. 

“YOU!”

Tom stumbled back, his eyes wide as the man advanced. 

“Son of a Blood-traitor and that Muggle—” the man hissed and Tom realised belatedly it was in the language of serpents. He’d never seen anyone or heard anyone speak that tongue and to think that this— man could do something only Tom previously could. 

“Who are you?” Tom demanded, ducking out under the man’s outstretched arm and stumbled down the slope, almost falling straight into the river.

“Son of a whore. Of my blood-traitor sister!” The deranged man screamed and lunged again, dirty hands with long nails clamped around his neck. Tom gasped when his airway was constricted and something exploded. Pain seared through his shoulder and down his arm, his head hit something hard and his vision was dotted with dark spots. 

The deranged looking man loomed over him, like death itself and Tom struggled futilely as the man far larger and far more insane tightened his hold on Tom’s neck. 

“Magic is being waisted on a dirty Half-blood! Morfin knew my dirty sister had tarnished my great ancestor’s name.” He hissed and Tom’s vision started to blur, he scratched uselessly at the man’s wrist and tried to find the power— magic— that normally came so willingly to his aid. His sister? Was this idiot related to him. 

“Damn no good muggle— Reproducing— Tainting the pure blood line of Slytherin—” the maniac whispered hoarsely. 

Nothing he said made any sense to Tom and he grunted: “Get off of me you maniac!”

“Speaking the language of Serpents, waisted on yeh.” He hissed and Tom’s vision turned dark before black. His heartbeat, previously thundering loudly against his ears, was slowing and his lungs burned. Was this how he would die? At the hands of some deranged man who may or may not be related to him—

The man suddenly let out a pig-like squeal and Tom felt the weight on his body ripped off of him. For a moment he lay still wheezing loudly, taking in a grateful gulps of air. And then he opened his eyes His father, face so pale Tom worried for a second the deranged man might have gotten to him too, loomed over him. Tom had never been happier to see him, but was slightly worried he was a hallucination and he had died. “Dad?”

His father’s eyes briefly widened. Tom had never before referred to him as dad before and he felt the hand on his shoulder tremble when he pushed him upright. The man held his cricket bat stiffly in one hand while muttering soothing nothingness into his ear.

“I’ve got you! I’ve got you. Are you all right?” He wheezed, looking up and down his form. Tom’s nice polo-shirt, which according to Megan fitted well with his eyes, had been ripped and nasty burn, possibly magic related, had turned the skin an angry red. “Where does it hurt? Did he—”

Tom Senior’s face turned a tinge of green and Tom belatedly realised his father was asking him if he tried to force himself on him. Tom shivered: “No, I— I’m fine.”

He was not. 

He tried to stand but his legs were like jelly and before he could make out a sound, his father had pulled him up against his chest, curling his arm around his upper legs. Tom hesitantly looped an arm around the man’s neck. The rover, with his matted hair and his filthy face was laying on his stomach, there was a wound on the side of his head and Tom realised his father. His tall and often shaking father with the trauma to his mother had banged the other man on his head with the cricket bat.

He moaned horrendously and Tom’s grip on the man tightened: “Who is he?”

“He’s—”

“Is he related to me?” Tom asked slowly. He didn’t want to be related to him. Not to him!

“I don’t have a satisfying answer to that, I’m afraid.” His father muttered quickly retreating the steps towards the manor. The deranged man, possibly his uncle staggered to his feet.

“I get you for this!” He cried, and Tom Senior quickened his pace. “I get you, you disgusting Muggle! Morfin will wait for you!”

“You can wait long, you idiotic Tramp!” His father snarled back, hustling Tom as he ascended up the hill. An old woman screamed loudly and he supposed they must have returned to the grounds of the manor. 

“Tom?” His grandmother shrieked. “What happened to him? Tommy? Oh sweetheart—”

Hands tugged at his shoulders and his father sighed: “Mother, you can’t carry him. Contact a doctor.”

Tom didn’t like doctors. His eyes opened slightly: “No doctor—” he wheezed, but his father gave him an irritated glance.

“Yes doctor.”

Tom frowned. He must have been loosing blood, because he felt woozy. Just as woozy as when he had fallen of the fence around the orphanage. But still, he didn’t want a doctor. Doctors worked at the Asylum. The Asylum was where the children were sent who weren’t quite right in their heads and it was rumoured to be ten times worse than the orphanage. It had to if they would try to electrocute you (because that would make people sane of course). 

“Nooo…” he muttered but his father merrily moved him until he his head was leaning in the crook of his father’s neck. He ignored his unwillingness to see a doctor and slowly he felt his consciousness wane.

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that is chapter six. Got to love good old Morfin, don’t you? At first I wrote this in a way where Tom 
> 
> The tale that moss always grows on the west side of trees is not entirely true, yet in wet countries it’s from where the rain lashes against the foliage, in other words keeping it wet. Therefore, I suppose in English it might indeed grow towards the West. In warm countries, with a lot of sun, moss might grow to the North, so it won’t hydrate.


	8. The bond between father and son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A very long absence and I'm sorry, but, slowly but steadily, I'll be back! It will take me some time to get back to writing (especially, since I have a shitload of homework to get back to), but I think another chapter will be done around the weekend.
> 
> In short, enjoy the seventh (eight according Archive) chapter of 'Still waters'!

Light, warm and bright shone into the Riddles spacious parlour. Tom Riddle was enjoying the neat spring afternoon, drinking a cup of tea and riffling through his belated morning paper. From outside he noticed his son talk to his teacher and Tom frowned, almost dropping his cup. Errol Heartow was one of the better home school teachers, but he was also odd. Why didn't the man come straight inside. He was supposed to come straight inside, not to dally outside. If he did, Tom could deal with with the man about his son himself. Not his father.

Yet, it was not allowed to be that way as Thomas Riddle importantly strode inside. He felt his heart grimace when he watched his father take a seat. The teacher had come inside as well, placing a thick file full of neatly written essays on the table.

"He's very bright." Jules Heartrow decided and Thomas nodded. He'd been the most reluctant to grow close to young Tom, but he'd also been the first to succumb. Purely because the new Riddle heir was that absolutely brilliant. A bright future (one which probably would be filled with magic) lay ahead of him and Thomas was so very pleased he'd finally got the heir he deserved.

Tom glanced outside. His son was stepping through the hedge and—

His son was stepping through the impervious green hedge and he jumped up.

"Tom?" Thomas Riddle asked, raising an imperious eyebrow.

"Excuse me, I have to get my son."

"And that can't wait?"

"No, he just—" he caught himself in the nick of time before telling his parents Tom saw his son create a gaping hole in the bush and had stepped through. The hole was gone and moreover, his parents and acquaintances already thought he was mentally ill. He didn't need them to have another ground to think so. "Excuse me."

Tom hurried out of the parlour, almost ran straight into his eavesdropping mother, grabbed his cricket bat and took the veranda steps two at a time. The gardener gave him a strange look as he hurried past and he was sure he heard him mutter about the Loon Senior before he stalked outside the gates. It was a relatively nice day, with the sun bright and warm.

It had been three months. Three months. So why did that stupid boy not listen now, all of a sudden?

Tom gritted his teeth together and quickened his pace. He could see the village, but since Tom Junior had seemed to find little interest in the company of other people, Tom doubted he would venture out into the busy market square. A heavy feeling settled into his stomach and he stumbled onto the path towards the Gaunt shack. In the years after he returned home, scared and completely exhausted, Tom had been intent on avoiding the Gaunt house. Even when he'd be unsure if Merope's brother had been released from his prison or not, but had been unwilling to take the risk.

As he moved now and then he saw a snake slither along the roadside, making odd hissing sounds or glared (he was absolutely sure they glared at him) after him. That animals, especially snakes, were weary for him so close to the Gaunt shack and it shouldn't have surprised him (he remembered the death adder nailed to their front door quite clearly). Tom felt his breath quicken and he rubbed his hands awkwardly together, trying to ignore the clamminess that had nothing to do with the heat and everything with his apprehension.

His apprehension was completely forgotten when he stepped out into a small clearing and noticed the shape of his son.

He was far too close to the Gaunt's shack and Tom felt the blood sap out of his face. He could only hope the tramps were not in, but that hope was diminished when the bulky figure of Morfin Gaunt jumped out of the bushes.

Tom watched helplessly as his son was toppled over and they rolled the ground. His son struggled fleetingly and suddenly smoke filled the air and he started to jog, but for now he could only watch uselessly as Tom Junior's lips were starting to turn blue. Morfin's hands curled tightly around Tom's throat and the boy started to hack, the fire that must have been his son doing magic spluttered ominously.

Tom raced towards the two figures and without even thinking about it (silently thanking he'd decided to take it with him), he swung the cricket bat at Morfin's head. It made a nasty crack on impact with Morfin's temple and the great ape squeaked, before collapsing to the ground.

He didn't stir again and for a moment Tom didn't move. What if he'd killed the great ape?

He certainly didn't want to go to prison and if he let someone else find the body the village would probably decide Tom tried to kill his old nemesis. They probably wouldn't or at least couldn't if he was the one who brought it in. Cradling the sleeping child in his arms, Tom pulled the child up and stumbled away, ignoring the small pool of blood that was accumulating around Marvollo's temple.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 

The light was bright, falling in through the high paned window of the orphanage. His eyelids were heavy and he became away of the loamy fragrance. His room normally didn't smell so clean and his head normally didn't hurt quite this much. Pain throbbed rhythmically behind his temple and a strange soreness pulsed through his neck and right shoulder. He was momentarily confused.

Even more so when he opened his eyes and was met with the warm broken-white ceiling of the bedroom relay in. It took him another moment to remember he wasn't at the orphanage and hadn't been for months. He was at his dad's home. Safe.

He groaned, fingers tracing the painful bruises along his neck and he remembered the ape (his uncle?) who had jumped him from out the bushes. He might have believed that was a dream, but— there was a bandage around his head and obviously there were a lot of painful bruises around his neck.

His father's face suddenly loomed up above him. Every time he appeared without a warning, he would be surprised at the resemblance they shared. The dark wavy hair, the arch of the high cheekbones, the pale skin and even the very colour of his eyes. The man who had saved him.

"You're awake."

"Dad?"

His father smiled almost warmly. Tom realised belatedly it might be because he'd called him 'dad'. He hadn't done that before. Not even once in the three months he lived with him. Tom didn't want to get attached. He still half expected the man to return him to the Orphanage.

"Yes," he nodded, "yes, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"Sluggish," he muttered softly, ignoring the threaterous heat that spread over his cheeks. "That ape?"

"I contacted the police." Tom Senior explained but Tom got the feeling that would do little. At least, Tom Senior seemed to think so.

"I kill him," he muttered and his father actually had the nerve to look amused. "I will."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes!"

"Well first, you've got to get better don't you?" His father asked challenging inclining his head to the side. Fleeting images of him hitting the deranged man with a cricket bat passed before Tom averted his eyes, his headache too dominant to ignore.

"My head—"

"The doctor told us you hit your head when you fell. You have no idea how worried you got everyone!"

Tom scowled (he had half the mind to deny their worry) but no word could leave his mouth before his bedroom door opened and his grandmother rushed inside."Sweetheart."

Tom stiffened in his bed as she crossed the room far too quick for someone of her age and gripped his hands tightly, before pulling him into a bear hug. Tom stiffened, still not accustomed to her grandmotherly antics. "Oh Dear God, you're up. Can you sit up, Sweetheart? Are you feeling all right? Are you hurt?"

"Mother," his father whispered, "please, let him breath."

"Don't be difficult, Tom, I just want to know how or Tommy feels." She chastised him and Tom, who didn't like her nickname of him at all, pursed his lips.

"I'm fine— Grandmother." He stated softly, staring up at her worried, wilted face. She sat down on the side of bed and ran her fingers through his hair. He would never admit out loud but it was somewhat soothing, even if he still did not like to be touched.

"We were so worried about you. What were you thinking, going outside the fence? Didn't your father tell you about the dangers that lay behind them?"

"Not that there was a furious, moronic imbecile on the loose." Tom muttered and his father poked at his cheek, gaining his attention.

"Oh, yes, before I forget. You are very much grounded. No library no outside privileges, you will be tied to your bedroom, bathroom and dining room." Tom Senior whispered softly and Tom scowled, demonstratively turning on his side, turning his back to his father. It made both adults snicker and he felt his face turn hot. He would have loved to tell them to kiss his combat boots (he actually owned a pair now), but he supposed that would probably be quite childish. And Tom was not childish.

No, he would plot his revenge.

And he was very good at plotting at that too...

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In seven-year-old Tom's eyes, being considered one would probably be horrible. And, well, he's seven. He should consider mild, stupid punishments… Still, Tom Junior does not approve^^


	9. Father my Father

After two days of lonely solitude, Tom was ready to tear the wallpaper down. Having finally given up on the possibility of sleep, Tom had slid out of his bed and headed down the stairs, making far more noise than was absolutely necessary. He glared as he stomped down the stairs and stopped in front of his father, sitting behind the kitchen table. The man was lighting a cigarette and Tom stared at the stick with furious intent, all but ready to let it smoulder to a crisp. “Now, now, young man, keep that temper of yours under control.”

He shut his jaws together and growled: “You can’t keep me locked up in here!”

“You should have obeyed the rules.”

“Why?” Tom snapped and Tom Senior dropped his cigarette case to the large mahogany table. It clucked softly, catching the light coming from the electric, low-strung chandeliers.

“Because I am your father and you do as I say.”

“That’s no reason. You weren’t there for the first seven years of my life either.” Tom snapped back. No matter how much family life had grown to him, how much he didn’t despise his grandmother’s smothering antics anymore, he did not forget his father had left him there for the first seven years of his life. Even if his father told him he hadn’t known about his existence, it was still a sour point for Tom.

“No, but I am here now, and you will have to deal with it. It’s normal for a young boy your age to have rules to listen to.”

He glared at him, the tip of the cigarette catching fire and his father hissed, dropping it on the table. “Tom!”

“I can do more—” He threatened half-heartedly and his father’s face turned irritated.

“If you want to be treated like an adult, you will have to act like one. That means no threatening. No magically burning my cigarettes. No, it means you’ll have to talk with us, with me or your grandparents.”

Tom flushed. How was this man so calm? Not even Mrs Cole could keep her cool. And she actually had the audacity to hit him. 

“Oh, and another thing, young man, if you try something like that again, I will send you to your room and you will be grounded for far longer. Tom flushed, anger mouthing in his blood and he resisted the urge to stamp his foot. 

“This is unfair.”

“Don’t you understand what could have happened?” His father’s voice raised only slightly and yet, he commanded a subtle authority.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Tom snapped.

“You did!” His father returned. “You disobeyed my rules because you were bored.”

“This is like a gilded cage!” Tom snapped. “And you are crazy! I heard what the maids said!”

“Don’t speak of things you don’t understand!” His father snapped back and Tom’s cheeks flushed. “I am not crazy. Or is the things you can do, this magic, a sign of craziness too?”

“I hate you!” Tom whispered and his father sighed.

“At least you are alive to hate. What if I hadn’t seen you sneak away?” His father asked slowly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He suddenly seemed older and Tom glared. “Morfin would have killed you!”

“He wouldn’t—” Tom muttered, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “I would have stopped him.” When his father looked unimpressed, he bristled; “I would. I am strong. I can do far worse! I stopped Mrs Cole from hitting me, I—”

“I’m sorry, what?” His father whispered and tom felt his cheeks redden when he realised he’d mentioned Cole’s corporal punishments. “She hit you? Why did she hit you?”

“—Just forget it!”

“Tom!”

A warning edge had presented itself on his father’s face and Tom averted his eyes. His father— his father was often just like him. The same fire in his eyes but he hid it better. Tom stared at the older man’s face from his peripheral vision and drummed his fingers against the table.

“She hit all the children when she thought they misbehaved.”

Tom Senior’s face turned grim and he snapped the lid of his cigarette case shut. “Well, she’ll soon be out of a job. No one hits my son.”

“But you?” Tom asked cheekily.

“I don’t think I’ve ever hit you.”

Tom scowled. If his father ever tried hitting him he would—

“Yes, you would probably not take kindly to people hitting you.” His father dryly retorted. “Grounding you and keeping you away from books works much better.”

“I hate you!” 

“Hate, love, thin line.”

Tom’s scowl deepened: “I don’t do love.”

His father laughed again and Tom stomped out of the kitchen. It irritated him to no end that his father had gotten so used to Tom’s display of power. The first time he’d watched him use it, levitating the couch and coffee table through the living room approximately one month ago. Tom Riddle senior had been ecstatic, hollering for his gaping grandparents to come and watch and — didn’t he tell them so; fucking witchcraft — caught Tom Junior’s wrist. He’d been halfway of dragging his son along the garden, to showcase him around the village when he remembered one, he didn’t like the village, and two, if those ‘religious bastards’ watched Tom yielding a power they did not know they would undoubtedly be truly afraid. Which would almost be worth it, if they’d hunted Morfin, but the villagers didn’t need another reason to try and start an uprising, as far as Tom Senior was concerned?

“Hello young Master,” Megan greeted and Tom frowned. She was holding both of her hands pressed against her apron-clad belly and he realised belated she was hiding something.

“What are you doing?” He asked suspiciously and she grinned shark-like, before yanking a book free from her skirt pocket. Tom stared with wide-eyes.

“Like to have this?”

Tom cocked his head to the side: “I’m pretty sure you could get into trouble for that.”

She shrugged. “Don’t worry, your grandfather seems to think I keep your father on his toes.”

Tom smiled at that and slowly took the book. She disappeared around the corner and he pursed his lips. “You probably do.” 

Tapping the book with his fingers he returned back to his room, flopping back onto the bed and stared, as he’d done so many days now before, at the white ceiling. It was a Saturday and Tom still didn’t enjoy those. They reminded him of the weekends in the Orphanage, where the child-seeking families came looked at him with starry eyes until they heard the stories the other children and the school matron had to tell. Propping his legs up on his bedpost he munched over next course of action. Perhaps apologising might be the right thing to do. The only problem—

“I have to sound sincere.’”

Tom had never been too good at sounding sincere and he opened the book to read. If only he could understand why his grazed uncle had attacked him. Pressing his lips tightly together he absentmindedly trailed his fingers over his neck. The bruises had healed already, but the memories were still fresh. He probably really did owe his father. Would he have died if his father hadn’t happened upon me? Perhaps he should make a valiant effort to get along with the man. Obviously, his father had not been too impressed with Tom’s display of power and he really didn’t need Tom Riddle Sr to return him to the orphanage (even if Tom didn’t really believe the older Riddle would truly do that).

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Personally I think Tom Riddle Sr was an extremely spoiled child, but I also think the whole ordeal with Merope might have humbled (and scarred) him quite a bit. Anyway, it made him a patient man. I think he had quite a few years to get used to the idea of having a special son, so he’s not going to fuck it up just now. As for servant’s girl Megan, she has a soft spot for the oddball (and probably a healthy dose of resentment for her employer).
> 
> And Tom Sr. doesn’t agree with his son not loving— Well, no parent wants to see the worst in their children I suppose. This chapter took quite long, I just couldn’t find a way to convey what I wanted to in this chapter, but at least here it is. As for the next chapter, we’ll jump ahead a few years. If I have to go through all of Tom’s childhood this will be a long fic…
> 
> Let me know what you all think! Next update next week!

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I don’t know why I wanted to try this. Perhaps because Tom’s character seems very difficult to understand (as he was a raging psychopath in the books), yet, interesting enough to write. I’ve read a lot of fanfictions (including various of Tom Riddle’s school years — or at least part of Tom Riddle’s school years) and several of them focused on the similarities of Riddle’s and Harry’s upbringing.  
> Personally, apart from appalling childhoods at the hands of caretakers who should have loved them, I don’t see all that much similarities. Yes, they’re both Half-bloods and grew up as orphans, hating to be away from Hogwarts (their ‘real’ homes), but I think the time Riddle grew up might have been an added bonus. Not only were orphanages not all that great during the forties (at least from what I read), but he also grew up during the second world war. Which means if Wools orphanage was near London (and I believe I read it was) than he was living in a city subjected to Nazi aerial bombardment with air raid sirens and planes dropping bombs. If your opinion about a group of people is already low; living through a war, having barely enough to eat (because daily meals were definitely not a thing with orphanages) and being considered a devil (I’m also quite sure people still believed in the devil being reborn in children), it might not get much better.
> 
> Thereby, even in England, there was a lot of racial hostility. I find the idea very interesting. Also, with Gerrelt Grindelwald an active politicus (as much as I do not appreciate that term for him) and Riddle sorted in Slytherin, where many children might think along the lines of purifying the wizarding race, it might have been a recipe for disaster. 
> 
> Anyway, it made me wonder if things could have been slightly different, if instead of having to grow up on the slopes of London, suffering from poverty and neglect. Perhaps it might not change a thing, but we’re going to see…
> 
> Enjoy and leave a review.


End file.
